The Jack-Knife Had It Coming
by LaDine
Summary: Sherlock touches the handle of the jack-knife and John's imagination runs wild... for a split second.
1. The jack-knife had it coming

Not brit-picked or beta'ed.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything of this. I just got inspired by this picture: /arwelwjones/status/315407663133491200/photo/1

Please, let me know if you find any mistakes.

Thank you!

* * *

Sherlock is restless.

For the last two hours, John has watched him moving around the flat like a flying insect collecting pollen. His blue dressing gown, billowing after him, makes John imagine a gigantic butterfly seeking nourishment in a tiny, empty garden.

Pace. Stop. A light touch to the curtains.

Pace. Stop. A finger stroking the wall.

Pace. Stop. Now in the kitchen. John is at the table in the sitting room, so he can't see what Sherlock is doing there.

Pace. Stop. In front of the fireplace. Hovering, with his hands fisted in the pockets of his dressing gown.

He has his back to John, and seems to be looking at the correspondence, which rests transfixed by a jack-knife over the aforementioned fireplace.

John sees him pull out his right hand, spread his fingers and touch the pile of envelopes. Then, he strokes the blade lightly with the pad of his index finger, up and down, as if enjoying the coolness and the smoothness of the metal. The finger travels up one last time and end up rubbing the little metal circles at the base of the handle... where the rest of the fingers (including the thumb) join in.

All together now, the fingers caress the handle, circling around it and moving all the way up to the rounded split end.

Down now.

Up again.

The pad of his thumb rubs the twin metal circles at the end of the handle.

Down again.

Up now.

John is staring. He watches the movement and, because he is an adult so 'purity of mind' be damned, feels how his lips curl into a smile.

Sherlock's hand is doing something that could be _remotely_ porny. _Porny. Sherlock._

John is chuckling before he can stop himself.

Sherlock looks back at the sound and takes a second to observe John, who's watching determinedly at the screen of his laptop. He can feel the intent gaze on his face, and the fact that Sherlock can -and will- deduce what made him laugh a moment ago makes it even worse. John, ever the soldier, fights to repress the laughter. He licks his lips, then bites them, but all to no avail.

"Oh, what? I read something funny, okay?" He says, shrugging defensively and pointing at his laptop with his hands, blushing from the effort to control himself and finally laughs anyway, looking up at Sherlock.

Who is staring at him with a little derisive smile on his face which tells John that he has read it all fast and efficiently, as expected.

"Pervert."

"I'm not a pervert! I'm practicing... I-I have to pay attention to these little details that show things about people," Sherlock makes a face of extreme incredulity at that, "in real life, and then use them in my stories! (_what, exactly, I'm getting myself into?!) _I have to get a grasp of... subtext!"

"Subtext," Sherlock says in a deadpan tone of voice. "You're going to write _that_ about _me_ in your blog."

"What? No! no-absolutely not! what made you... Look," John does look mortified, "I was just explaining that it happens sometimes and it can be useful if you are a... narrator." _Narrator_ is more dignifying than _blogger_, and he can use some dignity right now. "I-I know that you notice things and deduce facts, but when we, ordinary people, read books and watch movies or tv series or... whatever, and characters do things that can be read as suggestive... we, sometimes, and some people more than others..., read them as suggestive," he finished lamely. "It just happens in real life too and it's funny. Sometimes it's funny. Like now."

"It doesn't happen to me. When I look at a jack knife I see a jack knife, not a phallic object."

"That's because you are you!" At Sherlock's confused frown, John tries to buy himself some credit. "That knife is a perfect phallic object!" John cries. "Oh, for the..., look at it, standing there all... proudly!" Sherlock does look at it, then at John and then back again at the knife. John catches his reflection on the mirror above the fireplace. He's frowning and looking sideways.

"Ahem, John. Tell me, how many _suggestive_ objects can you see in this room? Just so, you know, I can throw them away, if possible, or at least not touch them or look at them _suggestively._"

"Okay Sherlock, leave it, okay? Leave it. I don't even know why we are having this conversation! It's not like I have done anything, for god's sake! I just chuckled! Can't I chuckle? Privately?"

"You chuckled _aloud_ because you were imagining _me_ masturbating a jack-knife!"

"_Yessso_ what?! I was watching you fidgeting around and then you stopped and started to stroke the jack-knife with those long fingers of yours and I thought 'it looks like he's...' and then 'It's Sherlock!' and then I chuckled." John stops to breathe."I wasn't even laughing at you, I was laughing at me! Okay? At my subconscious, for being ridiculous!"

"Why is it ridiculous?"

"Why is it... because you don't... I-I don't..." He makes a pause and tries to find the right thing to say, which is frankly difficult, given the circumstances and his interlocutor. "Look, if it had been an old nun, instead of you, it would also have been funny."

"And an old priest?"

"Nope, not funny. I would have felt sorry for him. Maybe. Maybe not. It'd depend on the context. And the priest."

"Because I don't... what? What were you going to say?" Sherlock asks, staring at John through eyes half-closed with suspicion. "What do we have in common, your little old nun and I? What makes us _sooo funny_?"

"Not you! I told you, not you! Not the poor old nun! Me! It's funny that I imagine _you_ having something to do with sex! Because it's... I don't know... wrong, I suppose, like imagining an old nun and sex would be!"

"Why?"

"You tell me. No, that came out wrong. I mean, don't you see? You... seem to be... above... all that."

"Sex."

"Yes! It's not something you ever... I don't know... talk about or even seem to think about, unless it's to make some remark about Anderson and Sally, of course... you-you know what I mean."

"You are trying to say that thinking about me and sex is like thinking about an old nun and sex."

"Yes! Mmm...more or less."

Sherlock looks at him triumphantly and sniffs.

"Like I said, then. You _are_ a pervert."

"Alright. You win. I'm a pervert. You're right, as always. Can we stop having this conversation now?" John smiles sweetly and goes back to his laptop. Sherlock decides it's a good time to flop dramatically on his armchair and so he does.

Half an hour elapses in an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the tap-tap sound from John's fingers over his keyboard and the tap-tap sound from Sherlock fingers over the armrests of his armchair.

Sherlock clears his voice.

"In your perverted scenario, the jack-knife was _my_ jack-knife or was anybody else's..."

"I don't know!" John interrupts the question. "It wasn't a whole scenario! It was a just a quick, ill-advised image!"

Sherlock hums. The next time he speaks is about ten minutes later.

"You mentioned my _long_ fingers. I suppose they are. Then again, I have long hands." He comments, exposing those fingers in front of his eyes.

"Hmm."

"Why did you say 'long'?"

"Because they're long."

"Yes. But why did you see the need to specify?"

"Sherlock." John can make a first name sound like a warning.

Another half an hour in silence, and John starts to think that the topic is finally settled.

Nothing further from reality.

"I do," Sherlock says.

"You do what," John mutters in response.

"Masturbate. Sometimes."

ffffffffffffffffffffffffffff ffffffffffffffffffffffffffff ffffffff...

One hundred and forty nine 'f's appear on John's screen. Apparently, one of his fingers has got stuck on the keyboard at Sherlock's words.

"Oh. You do?"

"Yes. That's what I said just now. Has your little mind forgotten it already?"

"Well, sorry, but I really wasn't expecting to hear that." A long minute of heavy, pregnant silence follows.

"I just don't indulge very often."

John tries to put his 'doctor' mode 'on' because, honestly, he doesn't know how else to speak with Sherlock, _Sherlock_, about this.

"Do you... erm, have any physical problem? Phimosis? Retarded ejaculation?" He sees Sherlock curly black hair shaking a 'no'.

"No... It's not anything really out of 'normal'" Sherlock says somewhat hesitantly.

"Yes?"

"It's just that I... " even not being able to watch his face, John could tell he is grimacing. "... leak."

"Well," John says quickly, in what he expects is a soothing and professional voice. "The emission of pre-seminal fluid is perfectly normal and..."

"I know it's normal." Sherlock interrupts. "But in my case it's... copious. It's... so messy." Somehow it's getting difficult for John to keep this conversation even a tiny bit above the level of what's considered surreal.

"But, you'd say it's normal? I mean, the colour, the texture, the smell..."

"Yes, yes, yes, the texture, the smell, the taste, everything is normal."

The taste.

_The taste_.

John highs up his 'doctor' mode to 'turbo'.

"Okay. If everything's normal, then, I don't think you have anything to worry about. Some men can have this symptom when suffering from prostatorrhea, but I'm sure it's not your case. I mean, it only happens when you are... "

"Masturbating, yes."

John really, _really_, wants to finish this conversation and go to drown himself in the bathtub.

Sherlock turns over in the armchair and sits cross-legged, facing John. He rests his fingers on the back of the seat while observing his friend and making all sorts of accurate deductions about John's actual state of 'acute weirdness'.

"I don't really think it's abnormally copious either, it's just..."

"Well, you can consider it an advantage. Think of the saving on lube, hehe!" John tries a little lightness to lessen the _whitish_ thickness of the air that is filling the room.

"... just," Sherlock repeats, "... that I hate seeing myself so messy and needy..." His mouth twists in distaste. "...seeking release in such a _primal_ fashion." He looks at John with an expression of disgusted wonder. "And to think that you like to do it all the time."

John bites his tongue with his front teeth and purses his lips.

"Not all the time."

"I didn't mean you. I meant 'you people'. In general."

"I still find myself in that group and I can tell you _it's not all the time_." Sherlock dismisses the comment with a wave of his hand.

"Anyway, I can't see the appeal of an act which metaphorically _and_ literally drains me and leaves me all sweaty and dirty. Why do you like it so much?"

John tries to smile but it comes out more like a rictus.

"Because it feels good. And it's free. Almost free, actually, since I _do_ have to use _lube_ if I want to make _things_ smooth and nice!" John says, clearly irritated.

"Oh, so sorry I can't lend you some of mine, since I have _so much_ to spare!" Sherlock cries in retaliation. Then, a mere second later, his face freezes. John mirrors his expression.

Sherlock blushes.

John is already red in the face for different reasons, so he can only become purple.

Somewhere in the city, a clock chimes the hour.

Inside the sitting room, all sorts of vivid imageries fly between John and Sherlock.

"I..." John's voice is missing, so it doesn't really sound like an 'I'. He tries again: "I'm going to open the window, do you mind?"

"No, by all means, go ahead." Sherlock's voice is a bit raspy, but it's steadier than John's.

A breeze enters the room from the street. Sherlock shivers. Standing by the window, John can see his nipples hardening through his threadbare t-shirt.

Sherlock shivers again.

Then, he gasps.

Sherlock's eyes are fixed on John's face. John's gaze is still glued to his friend's chest. He licks his lips.

In a sudden motion, Sherlock gets up, crosses the room to the kitchen, crosses the kitchen, passes the bathroom, enters his bedroom and shuts the door.

John stands by the window. He weighs up the situation.

He can stay here and try to write some more.

_Right now, impossible._

He can have a long, hot, relaxing bath.

_Sherlock is in his bedroom. Too near. _

He can have a long, cold shower.

_Sherlock is in his bedroom. Too near._

He can make tea.

_Sod the tea._

He can go up to his room and...

_Yes_

John adjusts himself, goes up to his room and closes the door.


	2. The bottle of water

I still don't have a beta, let alone a brit-picker.

I'm all alone in this, so if you spot any mistakes, please, _please, _tell me.

And thanks for reading!

* * *

"Pass me your phone."

"My phone? Why don't you use yours?"

"Molly has it. Your phone, please." John hands it to him. Sherlock takes it without looking up from the microscope.

"Only hope you're not texting a psycho-killer."

"Mmm, psycho-killer, no. I'm texting Lestrade."

"Oh. You're on a case then. "

"A closed one. Kills the boredom." He finishes the text and leaves the phone on the lab's table.

John sighs. "Then, why did you text me to come to Bart's _directly_ after work? I thought you might need me for something imp... wait, you didn't make me come here only to use my phone, did you? No, you texted me from _your_ phone... and what's Molly doing with it anyway?"

"Molly is in the apothecary fetching chemicals. The list's on my phone."

John's head falls back in frustration. "You made me come here to use my phone," he whines.

Sherlock's attention is back to the microscope, remarkably unaffected by John's complaint.

"Did you have anything better to do?"

"Actually yes, believe or not." John answers, mostly to himself. He feels too defeated even to pretend being resented. He also knows it doesn't work, anyway. "Okay, I'm starving. I'm going to grab a sandwich, do you want anything?"

"Just coffee, please." Sherlock says without looking up. A second later he lifts his head just a fraction. "No, wait. Bring me some water too."

"A... bottle of water?"

"Yes, please."

"O-okay. A coffee and a bottle of water. Be right back."

John exits the lab without waiting for a response from Sherlock. He takes the stairs briskly, scolding himself all the way down to the canteen.

_This _ _has _ _to _ _stop_ _!_

For some weeks now he has been paying attention to certain _things_. _Things_ like Sherlock's daily intake of water. It is not a premeditated act. Nothing like _I__'__m __going __to __keep __a __record __of __how __much __water __he __drinks __per __day_ weird sort of thing. He's just noticing when Sherlock seems to be particularly thirsty, that's all.

_No_ _, _ _it _ _isn_ _'_ _t_ _._

In the canteen, John grimaces in front of one of the refrigerated showcases.

If he had to be entirely honest with himself, he would have to admit that he has some kind of morbid curiosity about his friend. He is like an addictive puzzle, one that becomes more insolvable and more addictive with each new clue.

And John knows he is absolutely hooked on it. Hooked from the start. Furthermore, the Irene Adler's affair had taught him one or two things about himself and his twisted anticipation towards the _romantic__? __vulnerable__? __human__?_ side of his flatmate.

It's not just curiosity. It's the obsessive need to unravel the mystery of Sherlock Holmes.

"Are there so many options?" A blonde girl in a white coat is beside him. "I only see tuna _or_ salad sandwiches."

"Oh, sorry." He opens the door and picks a tuna sandwich.

"It's okay. I still have a _whole __five __minutes_ left to eat my sandwich and to drink my coffee." He watches dreamily as the bad-tempered girl takes a salad sandwich and passes by to ask for her coffee.

He shakes his head.

_I _ _should _ _get _ _a _ _hobby_ _._

The fact that Sherlock decided to talk about his masturbatory habits has left him a bit... disturbed. And not only because he is now on a daily basis (_he __said __he __doesn__'__t __indulge __often_) worrying a little too much about whether Sherlock might or might not be a teensy bit dehydrated (_he __said __copious__, __not __abnormally __copious_). Well, this is only an example of basic, common and vulgar curiosity of the worst kind, after all.

No, no, he feels a bit... moved, somehow, because Sherlock shared with him a conversation that an adult male of thirty-something hardly shares with another adult male of thirty-something. Unless the other adult male is a doctor. Which is the case. Only that Sherlock doesn't consider him his doctor. Not really.

It was disturbing. Earth-shattering, even. He has felt how Sherlock has shut the door on his face, metaphorically and literally, every time he has tried to... intrude, in one way or another. To say that Sherlock is an extremely private person is the understatement of the century.

Nevertheless, one day, completely out of the blue, he finds that Sherlock is willing to discuss with him such an intimate and pathetically human weakness.

It was a weird evening. Awfully weird, to be honest. But there are so many weird things about Sherlock that, could he really swear that this one had been the _weirdest__ one__?_

Then again, when he thinks about _how _it ended...

He shakes himself and quickens his pace to the counter.

"Two coffees, please." He orders. "And... a bottle of water."

"Water's in that fridge." The boy at the counter answers with a bored tone.

_But_ _... _ _we _ _had _ _been _ _discussing _ _sex _ _all _ _evening_ _!_

And he didn't get aroused by Sherlock, but by _Sherlock__'__s__ arousal_. It was _empathy. _Besides, the fact that Sherlock became aroused by the thought of sharing his pre-ejaculate with him (_Oh__. __My__. __God__. __Let __me __die __right __now_) wasn't anything more than... flattering, really.

Or maybe it hadn't occurred to Sherlock before that such a thing could be done and he, John, as an individual, had nothing to do with Sherlock's arousal. What was even better, wasn't it?

_It _ _is_ _. _ _Of _ _course _ _it _ _is_ _._

When John finally gets to the lab, about forty-five minutes later, Sherlock does not acknowledge his presence at first, remaining in the same position for a few seconds. Then, he raises his eyes to look at John with an inquisitive expression.

"Did you go all the way to Colombia for that coffee?"

"What?" John adopts a defensive stance, but immediately shakes it off. "Next time you go to get your own coffee," he says, without rancour, opening the bag and taking out his sandwich. He leaves the bottle of water and the sugared coffee next to Sherlock. He notices that his mobile phone is there too. Molly has been back, then.

"We're almost finished here." Sherlock says, taking a sip from the paper cup.

"Great." John takes a bite of the sandwich and tries not to think about anything at all while he waits for Sherlock to finish at the lab.

* * *

An hour later, they are walking their way home.

Sherlock has taken the half-emptied bottle of water with him, and he's moving it to and fro as he walks.

"So. You didn't take the case. Yesterday." John doesn't ask.

"The weren't worth my time. Boring."

"_They_? As in more than one?"

"Oh, you were referring to the last client, the handsome young man? Well, an old lady came by a couple of hours before. You were at the clinic. Wasn't worth mentioning. Like I said, boring."

Suddenly and before he has time to think about why, John feels a bit flustered.

Sherlock's words keep ringing in his ears for a whole minute before he dares ask, summoning an air of nonchalance, "Hmm, so, did you... think he was handsome?"

"Didn't you?"

"I... suppose so." He only saw him at the door, just when he was about to leave for a pint with Stamford, but he had noticed that he was tall, bulky, with white teeth and a charming smile. "Rugby player?" That question earns him a hum of appraisal from Sherlock.

"_Amateur_. You're getting better." John blushes from the compliment like a fanboy in front of his idol.

"Well, he didn't look the brainy type, did he?" John says, feigning indifference.

"He's a math's professor, John."

"Really?" He sniffs and tries to hide his embarrassment.

"Yes, it was _obvious_." Sherlock says in a low voice, half-smiling, almost teasingly.

And still without knowing why, John starts to feel angry.

"Oh, such a _handsome _math's professor..." Sherlock looks at him with an amused frown, but John goes on, annoyed. "It's a pity, then. That he couldn't get you that much interested," _keep __it __cool__,_ _keep __it __cool_, "in the case, I mean, of course. _In __the __case_," he adds.

Sherlock lessens his pace gradually until he finally stops and gives him a piercing and baffled look. John smiles a fake innocent _Well__? __Are __we __stopping __now__?,_ although his hands betray his uneasiness. And because _only __God __knows __why_ he needs to prove a point, he pursues his lips, fixes his eyes on the bottle of water and then back to his friend's face.

Sherlock raises his arm and stares at bottle, confusedly. But a few seconds later his expression brightens in understanding. He then looks up, scans the street, spots a nearby bin, goes to it and stuffs the bottle in it. He calls for John without looking back at him.

"Coming?"

"Yes." John hastens his steps to get to Sherlock.

They walk in silence for a few minutes. And with each passing second, John's mood gets darker.

_What _ _was _ _this _ _all _ _about_ _? _ _What _ _am _ _I_ _? _ _Fifteen_ _?_

"Sorry." John says, a bit curtly.

"You're not." Sherlock doesn't look at him. John pursues his lips again but he doesn't say anything.

_But_ _I_ _am_ _. _ _I_ _'_ _m _ _sorry _ _and _ _ashamed _ _and _ _right _ _now _ _I _ _only _ _want _ _to _ _go _ _back _ _in _ _time _ _and _ _erase _ _everything _ _from _ _that _ _evening _ _to _ _right _ _now_ _. _ _Because _ _I_ _'_ _m _ _being _ _immature _ _and _ _I _ _don_ _'_ _t _ _deserve _ _your _ _trust _ _even _ _if _ _this _ _is _ _the _ _first _ _time _ _I _ _do _ _something _ _so _ _absolutely _ _rude _ _and _ _mean _ _to _ _you_ _._

His guilt and self-contempt are draining him and he can only give a few more steps before he stops, grabbing Sherlock from the arm of his coat.

His friend also halts and tugs his arm free.

"Look, I am sorry. I'm so sorry and ashamed that I don't even know... It's none of my business, okay? At all. And here I am trying to get you to admit... what?! It's like I'm becoming Dr. McCoy or something, for god's sake! I've been a dick, okay? I'm sorry." He licked his lips nervously, looking hopefully up at Sherlock.

"You thought..." His friend says as if he couldn't finish the sentence and shakes his head, smiling in disbelief and then laughing sourly.

John hasn't felt so embarrassed in his whole life.

"Sherlock. Just, forget it. Please. Forget what I sa... what I... what happened just now." John pinches the bridge of his nose. "I don't know what else to say. Please." He admits, defeated.

The seconds pass. A few people get in the pub at the corner of the street. A young woman cries and laughs at the door and John looks back at her, startled.

"It..." As always, Sherlock's voice has a magnetic effect on John's attention. "It... it doesn't work like that for me" Sherlock says, slowly, without meeting John's eyes.

John freezes.

"What..." He stops to lick his dry lips with his suddenly dry tongue. "What do you mean?"

"It's not... like that. Like it works for you." He gives John an oblique glance.

"Why not?"

"Bodies, looks, smiles, legs... It just doesn't work." John's heart begins to thump in his chest loudly.

"What then?"

"It's just a bodily function. For me. Like eating or excreting."

_No_ _. _ _No_ _, _ _it_ _ isn_ _'_ _t_ _._

"You... you mean..." John starts, hesitantly. "You mean you don't get..."

"Yes." He nods. "Exactly. I don't just see someone and..." he waves his hand eloquently. "I can't let myself be all worked up by stimuli I can't control."

John shakes his head with incredulity, but trying to understand.

"But...you said... you said you..."

"Yeeees," he drawls impatiently, "yes, like I eat, like I breathe and it's boring! It's all deadly boring! Are you being intentionally thick?" He spits, in a fit of annoyance. "I just don't. Like that." Sherlock shifts his weight onto the balls of his feet.

_You _ _don_ _'_ _t _ _want _ _to_ _, _ _but _ _you _ _do_ _. _ _I _ _know _ _you _ _do_ _. _

John looks up at him with his mouth slightly agape, with his face in an odd expression of expectancy and disbelief.

_But _ _I _ _was _ _there_ _. _ _I _ _saw_ _._

"It just... doesn't work." Sherlock repeats.

_Yes_ _, _ _it _ _does_ _. _ _It _ _worked _ _that _ _evening_ _. _ _It _ _works_ _._

_I _ _know _ _it _ _works_ _._

"Let's go home." Sherlock says annoyingly and dashes to hail a cab.

* * *

That night at the flat they don't talk. Sherlock sits at the kitchen table and takes notes on his laptop. A piece of cottage pie and a tiny box with human nails keep him company.

John watches telly without paying attention. He feels frustrated and angry and he doesn't especially want to know why.

Later, when he wishes Sherlock goodnight, it's more out of habit.


	3. The Jumper I

Fleetwood_Mouse took pity on me and beta'ed this chapter. Thank you so much! ^_^

* * *

"Well then, I'll go upstairs to unpack my things."

Sherlock gives him a brief glance and nods minutely.

Once out of the room, John leans back on the door, looks at the stairs up to his old bedroom and let a wave of nostalgia wash over him. It's all there: the handrail in perpetual need of varnish, the worn wooden steps, the slightly stale smell in the air... He mounts the stairs unhurriedly, treasuring the moment just like he would with something half-lost and half-recovered.

Two years. It has been two years since the last time he spent the night at Baker Street.

He enters the bedroom, leaves his handbag on the bed and unzips it, taking out a pair of vests, two shirts, a toothbrush, pyjamas, clean underwear and socks. He doesn't expect to be here more than a couple of days. Mary will be back home on Monday.

When he texted Sherlock that he was going to spend the weekend alone - Mary was off on a trip to visit some relatives - his friend offered him his old bedroom, "for old time's sake." When he arrived this evening, Sherlock's manner was not effusive, but John thinks he was glad to see him.

Although they have been in contact since Sherlock's return some months before, apart from the couple of cases that his friend has shared with him, they have not seen much of each other. During the two years of Sherlock's absence, John has built a new life. A normal, ordinary life, full of working hours, busy weekends and, quite recently, also full of homely bliss. It had been hard to endure, this _normal _life, at first. But then again, John is a survivor, and survivors know by instinct how to get through.

John sits on the bed and takes a moment to let his eyes wander through the room.

_I've missed this._

He closes his eyes and tries to pretend, for a second, that this is where he lives, that he has never left, that Sherlock...

_Sherlock._

John smiles to himself and opens his eyes. Sherlock has not changed much. He is a bit thinner, a tiny bit paler maybe, but these two years abroad don't seem to have softened his character in the least. He is still the volatile, moody and detached mad genius with an odd penchant for his not-so-_bachelor_-anymore sidekick and blogger John Watson.

Still, things have changed.

The most important one is, from John's point of view, his own perception of their relationship.

He had always thought that they were somewhat equals in their friendship, but now he can't fool himself any longer. A punch in the face cannot even begin to compensate for the two years during which Sherlock did _not need_ him, did _not even want_ him to know that he was indeed very much alive. And he... he had been mourning. He had needed to go back to therapy.

_Not so much equilibrium there._

John's lips twist into a sour line of self-deprecation. Because, how many times a day does he check his phone to see if Sherlock has texted him? Did he not leave Mary at the restaurant the last time Sherlock called him? And they were at the starters, for god's sake! John chuckles softly. And Mary had wanted him to tell her everything when he finally got home that night, her face the very picture of eager anticipation. A pair of lunatics, that's what they are. He is lucky to have her.

Sherlock is as busy as ever. He has lots of work to do, which is good for him, really. He calls John when he thinks the case could be especially interesting. _Or when he wants an audience. _Maybe it was always like that, before, and he never noticed. He has never been good at that. At noticing Sherlock's designs.

John shakes his head.

_I'm a moth and he's the flame. _

He gets as close as Sherlock lets him, and that's all there is to it. There's no point in wallowing in self-... nothing.

He takes out his phone and calls Mary, as he promised he would do.

* * *

Half an hour later John's sitting in the living-room, sipping at a cup of tea, while Sherlock stands before the fire. He hasn't spoken much, simply waving John to his old armchair and glancing briefly at him every now and then, as if in need to check his presence while thinking about something else. He certainly would look nervous and even shy to everyone else... but not to John. Eventually, he turns his head to his friend and looks him over in his singular way.

"Marriage suits you," he remarks.

"I'm not married." John frowns a little.

"Is there any difference, apart from the bureaucracy?" John stares at his friend for a few seconds before answering.

"No, I suppose there isn't. Not really."

"Well, you look good," he sniffs. "How much have you put on lately? Four pounds?" Sherlock arches an eyebrow inquiringly.

"Three!"

"Indeed?" Sherlock smirks. "I wouldn't rely much on those bathroom scales."

John shakes his head and chuckles.

"Alright, I'll check my weight at the clinic, okay?" He smiles at his friend with affection for a minute. Sherlock is wearing a tailored suit and a slim fit burgundy shirt. They look good on him. He's standing still, but he's tapping his fingers over the fireplace, unable to keep inside that lean body all his pent-up energy.

John inhales deeply and reclines his back on his armchair. At times like this, it feels truly wonderful just being alive.

"How about you? Have you had any interesting cases recently? I have to keep my blog updated."

"Interesting!" Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically. "You should read the last two emails I got."

"Nothing on now?"

"One of Mycroft's top secret affairs and two or three trifles." Sherlock answers dismissively.

"At least I'm glad I didn't miss the case of our lives then."

"I always text you when I need you around, don't I? He says, softly.

"I expect you do. Although," and there's a feigned expression of doubt on John's face as he proceeds slowly, "I wouldn't be so sure. Now that I think of it, you didn't seem to notice when I wasn't in the room. Or in the flat. You used to have entire conversations with me while I was out. I wonder if that has changed," he finishes frowning. He means it as a joke. He's proud he didn't sound reproachful. Well, _too_ reproachful.

_I'm a moth. A happy moth. _

Sherlock just gives him a brief tight smile as a response and averts his eyes towards the skull on the fireplace. He says nothing, but his shoulders are tensed and the left side of his lips twitches slightly and he blinks very quickly a few times, like he always does when he's feeling nervous or confused.

Despite the warmth from the hearth, John suddenly shivers. He looks at the windows to see if they are tightly closed. To ease a rather peculiar pang in his throat, he takes a sip of his tea. It has gone cold. He clears his voice a bit before he starts talking again.

"It's... a bit chilly upstairs. I had forgotten how cold it gets up there in winter." Sherlock shrugs off the inane comment impatiently and turns round abruptly to survey the room as if searching for something. He gives a small 'Hmf!' and crosses the room with wide and eager strides.

"And I... had forgotten about this," he remarks glancing shortly at John and holding between his long fingers a square and yellow piece of paper he has picked up from the coffee table. "There's Chinese in the fridge," he says casually as he wraps his scarf round his neck and puts his coat on. "Oh, and don't touch the red containers, please."

"Are you going out? Now?" John asks a bit baffled at the unexpected change of plans.

"There's something I have to check. Might be a bit late, though. See you tomorrow." He opens the door. John gets up.

"You don't... er, want me to go with you?"

"Mmm, nope. You'd be in the way." He stops for a second at the doorway to look at John. "You already know where everything is. So. Bye then."

And John is left standing in the middle of the living-room, bewildered.

* * *

This is definitely not what he had in mind when he decided to spend the weekend at Baker Street.

John finishes the leftovers he finds in the fridge and wipes his hands and his mouth with a napkin. A sappy song coming from the telly fills the room as he surveys what is left of his dinner, laid out all over the dining table. John, refusing to feel depressed, discarded and alone, pushes the mute button angrily. It's not as if Sherlock has stood him up.

_God knows it wouldn't have been the first time, anyway._

John sighs in resignation. He is more than used to Sherlock's outbursts to feel _too_ surprised, but still, he had not imagined he would be spending the evening all alone on their first night together in the flat after more than two years.

All evening, Sherlock has been looking a bit distracted, absent-minded and, if only John didn't know better, uncomfortable or nervous.

_There's something he isn't letting me in on._

It has to be Mycroft's case, he concludes. He cannot see what else it could be.

He stares at the muted TV. On the screen, a couple of youngsters are crying and kissing and, apparently, suffering way too much. He grimaces and turns the telly off.

After cleaning up the table, John goes to the shelves and browses the books, searching for something to take to bed with him. It's still early for sleeping, but there's little else to do. He picks up what looks like a battered coffee table book about practical beekeeping, full of pictures and explanatory diagrams. Trust Sherlock to have such an eclectic book collection. He sneezes a couple of times and looks at the cover absently while he considers having a quick shower to warm up before going to bed.

Some time later, John's up in his bedroom, changing into his pyjamas, when he hears Sherlock coming in. He pauses and thinks about going down again but dismisses the idea. He has the whole weekend ahead and pressing Sherlock is of little to no use when he is in one of his moods. Instead, he gets into bed with the bees and tries to read himself to sleep.

Only that it's so cold in the room that he can hardly keep his teeth from chattering. He wraps the blanket closely about himself, but it's not enough. He has to hold the coffee table book which is just not meant for use in bed, and interesting as it is, is not worth letting his arms and chest freeze. He looks for his old cable knitted jumper, which is the only jumper he's brought from home, and rolls his eyes when he doesn't see it on the chair.

_Oh shit._

He must have left it on the hanger of the bathroom.

John does not give himself time to think it over. He jumps out of the bed, puts his old slippers on and goes down the stairs.

There's no one in the living room when he enters, and the lights are all off. On his tiptoes, he crosses the kitchen, peers carefully into the corridor and...

... And freezes.

A yellowish light seeps out from under Sherlock's slightly open door, but it is not the only thing that is coming from his room. There is also a series of low, unmistakable noises that leave John no room for doubt about what Sherlock is doing, at this very moment, on the other side of that door.

Slowly, a surprised John feels his lips widen into a naughty smile.

The almost constant nasal moans of pleasure, delivered between deep and loud gasps, as well as the lewd, rhythmic sounds of a wet hand stroking flesh, tell John that Sherlock is indeed having a _very_ good time alone.

John closes his eyes as he feels a strange wave of _something_ that he doesn't want to analyse.

He has not forgotten, how could he?

But so much, _so much_ has happened since then!

John laughs softly as he remembers the conversation that he and Sherlock had more than two years ago, and his own _tiny_ obsession for some months afterwards.

_It's true, then. Sherlock masturbates._

"Ah, yes, ah, yes." Sherlock's breathy voice comes through the half-closed door.

_And he enjoys it alright. Not as boring as breathing then, I reckon._

John stifles a nervous laugh and considers a retreat, but he needs the jumper and he doesn't want to make any noise.

_God. This is weird._

John wipes his hand across his face. He is blushing furiously and his heart is pounding in his chest.

"Ah, ah, mmm, ah, ah..."

It certainly looks like Sherlock enjoys having a good wank as much as the next man.

John bites his lips and gives a careful step towards the bathroom. Nothing creaks. He clenches a fist at the small victory.

The wet sounds increase in tempo and John can't help remembering one particular detail from their conversation.

_You're going to drink the Thames dry, tomorrow. _

John has to bite back a laugh at that thought and shakes his head, feeling a little ashamed, a little _mortified_ even... but also... oddly happy, and mischievous, and nostalgic, and a bit turned on, and more than a bit _weirded ou_t by his old and present self, and _out of place_, of course, because he is, well, a man, and he is outside his best friend's bedroom, hearing him masturbating and having all sorts of feelings about it.

A low, deep and throaty groan, muffled somehow (_by a pillow?_) is followed immediately by a squeaky bed noise. Sherlock must be approaching his release. The sounds of his hand quicken and then there's _oh, oh, oh, oh,_ a succession of soft whimpers uttered almost in a painfully restrained way.

John purses his lips in a silent whistle. Either Sherlock is always that vocal, or that must have been one hell of an orgasm. In any case and thank God, he's finished, so John can finally take his jumper, go back to his bed, learn the whole bee book by heart, why not, and go to sleep in hopes of dreaming about cottages and honey.

He waits in silence for a few minutes.

The light goes off.

He waits some more.

When he thinks it's safe enough, he retreats to the dining-room, opens and closes the door and proceeds through the kitchen to the bathroom in a nonchalant and carefree manner. The only reason he doesn't hum a song because he doesn't want to overdo it.

Once in the bathroom, he looks at the hanger, and when he doesn't see the jumper, looks around frowning...

_What the hell? I left it..._

... And then, realisation hits him like a blow.

All of a sudden, he feels ants on his arms and needles in his throat and he gasps because it's exactly as if someone has punched him just below his sternum.

He rubs his stomach, trying to soothe a pain which is not there, because Sherlock has taken his jumper and the world has stopped spinning and he wants to cry because he feels happy and terrified and he does not know, he doesn't have the faintest idea of _what_, _exactly_, he is feeling right now. He almost doesn't want to think about anything... about why his heart is racing or about why his palms are sweaty.

He is cold, but his cheeks are burning.

John sits on the lid of the toilet. He does not trust his knees or his blood-pressure.

_Sherlock._

_He had my jumper, there. With him._

He shivers and wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. He is sweating.

He is scared of himself. Of reading too much or reading it all wrong as he always does with Sherlock.

_It's because of me, I know. Why else would he take my jumper? It's because of me, it's because of me! _

And he is exhilarated. And unbelievablysurprised at the fact.

But no, he doesn't know. Not for sure. Not with Sherlock. Nobody can take Sherlock for granted. And he wants to be wrong, doesn't he?

Doesn't he?

John tries to put his breath under control but no, he is still panting. His limbs are heavy and he doesn't think he can stand up for a while.

He did not expect that. Not from him.

_Yes, yes I did. Of course I did. _

Expect? Or want?

_No, I didn't, he's my friend. He's just... my best friend._

He is over-excited and awfully tired and confused and... miserable. Yes. He doesn't understand anything. And what's more, he is not sure he actually wants to.

_Sherlock._

He wraps his arms around his belly. It aches, a little.

Right now, he only wants to be far, far away. He wants to crawl into Mary's lap because it's safe there. Nothing can ever go wrong in Mary's lap.

_Mary._

_Oh, Mary._

John experiences that all-too-familiar abdominal discomfort and thinks he is lucky to be in the toilet.

He has just had an epiphany and now...

Now he doesn't know himself anymore.

* * *

John doesn't sleep that night. He has to visit the toilet two more times.

The next morning, he dresses and goes down the stairs to the bathroom.

This time, his jumper is hanging there.

John takes it and puts it on without thinking about anything at all.

He uses the toilet, washes his hands, his face and his teeth. He looks at himself in the mirror. He'll shave later.

John goes to the kitchen and starts preparing breakfast. Old habits die hard.

Sherlock is already up, in his dressing-gown, reading the paper.

"Coffee?" John asks.

Sherlock contemplates him for a few seconds with a blank expression before answering.

"Yes, please."

John nods and thinks that his friend looks more relaxed today. He does not wonder why.

Only when everything is ready and laid on the table he dares ask,

"Are you finally going to tell me about Mycroft's case or not?"

"You're not drinking coffee."

"Nope. Just tea and toast for me today. Upset stomach."

"Oh," Sherlock grimaces for a second, then sighs and starts talking animatedly.

He seems to be in high spirits today.


End file.
